


Seasons

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-05
Updated: 2009-07-04
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10161029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Four short poems focusing on Harry and Ginny throughout the seventh year - from the moment of their parting until the reunion after Voldemort's fall.





	1. Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

**Disclaimer:** all recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling and a list of others, the names of which I don't remember.

 

**Autumn**

The brazen wind softened and caressed our skin,  
the scent of black earth rising in whirlpools around us.  
His hair smelled of golden leaves and distant roads -  
we won't tread them together.

The tall trees of the forest are dying,  
the gilded September will leave them naked and cold.  
"Is that the autumn rain in your eyes?"  
Those are rivers, my love.

The stench of death and decaying leaves  
our farewells leave in their wake.  
Unshadowed days belong to the summer,  
these hours are buried in derelict hopes.


	2. Winter

**Disclaimer:** all recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling and a list of others, the names of which I don't remember.

 

**Winter**

Why is it, that the whitest of seasons should have the blackest of nights?  
Why is it, that the calm fall of the snow feels like a leaden hail?  
The space before me is empty, I embrace the dark,  
a part of me is lost, and frost and frost, and frost: the icy harpoons of my solitude  
is all that now remains when you are lost.

*

The earth has gone to sleep, the stones are hard and cold upon my touch.  
Who will keep the watch when you are hungry, when you are ill? I'm lost.  
I do not dream of you, for those are nightmares, fraught with fear.  
People swarm about, people flock around-  
it is not your black hair that I spy in the Great Hall,  
it is not your bashful smile that I see fleeting in the corridor.  
But I keep looking, I keep hoping that one day I'll be found.


	3. Spring

**Disclaimer:** all recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling and a list of others, the names of which I don't remember.

 

**Spring**

"Ginny."  
I say it aloud to remember your face,  
and it blossoms like a dandelion in the fiery sun.  
The light doesn't penetrate these concrete walls;  
they're soaked in our sweat and fright.

"Ginny."  
I hold on to the sun reflected in your eyes,  
as the ashen faces loom beside me.  
The screams upstairs have faded away  
but the stink of fear prevails.

"Ginny."  
I say it one last time before I'm allowed to forget.

*

I gather the ghost of your touch, still lingering on my face,  
and cradle it close to the heart.  
I whisper your name into the blooming soil,  
and it falls like tears from my lips, wetting the ground.  
The dazzling sky is mocking me - it should weep in my stead  
because I've forgotten how to cry.  
The grass rustles in the hush,  
"Harry."


	4. Summer

**Disclaimer:** all recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling and a list of others, the names of which I don't remember.

 

**Summer**

The stamp of death has lined my cheeks, my arms, my chest.  
Her porcelain fingers sway a nanometre from the skin,  
electrifying wearied senses.  
"Are you afraid to touch?"

Seconds fan out into eternity as she watches,  
silent, awed and lost.  
I've been cleansed in the Lethe and now I'm back,  
don't falter, don't quail.

I've been storing up the sunbeams along the lonesome path,  
There's still warmth beneath the deathly dust.  
I take her hand and breathe the life between her lips,  
"The thunder is coming to clear away the waning night, my love."


End file.
